


Ferret Calm, Ferret Bright

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Ferret-Verse [3]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, Christmas, F/M, Holidays, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Kevin and Jenny's place is wall-to-wall cheer and slightly tipsy people. Castle tries to see it for what it is: A neat, welcoming space all dressed up for the holidays. Their last hurrah with friends before the baby arrives. He tries to see that, but he's having flashbacks." A sequel to "Silent Night, Ferret Night" and "A Business of Ferrets." The epilogue is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1817662">Material Witness—A Taste of Honey.</a> I can be more confusing upon request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So first there was Muppet47's Waiting Game, which is BEST ACTUAL. And then Msolly was generous enough to let me borrow the ferret for [Silent Night, Ferret Night](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8793896/1/Silent-Night-Ferret-Night) last Christmas. And then Brain wrote [ A Business of Ferrets](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8860009/1/A-Business-of-Ferrets) last New Year's.
> 
> And then there was this. Different from the lunacy of those two stories, but still firmly situated in the Ferret-Verse.

  


* * *

Kevin and Jenny's place is wall-to-wall cheer and slightly tipsy people. Castle tries to see it for what it is: A warm, welcoming space all dressed up for the holidays. Their last hurrah with friends before the baby arrives. He tries to see that, but he's having flashbacks.

Holly berry conception wedges and sparkly foil babies dance out of the corner of his eye and disappear every time he turns to face the horror head on. They mercifully dissolve into something close to normal. Bright plaid bunting that is 100% ferret free. Wobbly snowflakes hand-cut from silver paper dangle here and there, a gift from Jenny's class. A cutesy nativity scene with a cardboard manger that's seen better days. One and only one baby in sight, tucked away in his manger.

_Just flashbacks,_ he tells himself. But a peal of laughter goes up from a knot of people and he stiffens. He could swear he heard a war cry, dying away. _Flashbacks_ , he tells himself again, and he knows he's not alone.

Lanie has a tight hold on Esposito. They're both drinking, slow but steady, and Lanie keeps him walking. Strolling the perimeter because it makes him feel like he's in control. Castle meets Lanie's eyes across the room. She nods. Esposito's ok. They're all going to be ok.

It's easy to believe it. Mostly easy. The party is fun. Everything's on the sweet side, and if it were anyone but Kevin and Jenny he might hate it a little. But she's radiant and he's that ridiculous mixture of nerves and pride and adoration. They're magic together. It's like their wedding all over again and Castle's envious of it. Of Christmas cookies and wine. Burl Ives running low beneath the hum of friends and it's . . . lovely.

They have the world's weirdest receiving line going. Someone decided it was a good idea to rub Jenny's belly for luck, and now almost everyone's in on it. A chain of laughing, red-cheeked friends, shoving their way through the living room.

No one is necessarily getting anywhere. People join the queue and wander away. They crowd around and cut in front of one another with good-natured profanity. They blush and duck their heads when Jenny scolds. They point guilty fingers at one another and mutter apologies.

Lanie tugs Espo to the front. He scowls and recoils, but Jenny laughs. She throws open the swingy hem of her cheery Christmas sweater and grabs his hand. A little shout ripples through the four of them.

_Not a war cry_ , Castle tells himself.

And it's not. It's the furthest thing. Javier's face lights up. He crouches and whispers something to the bump. Jenny swats at his ear and Lanie follows up with a sharp tug. They all grin and pretend not to notice that Esposito seems to have something in his eye all of a sudden. That Ryan does, too.

Lanie turns. She throws a smile to Castle over her shoulder. A little something loosens in him. It's ok. They're all ok.

Mostly.

Kate's gone again. He's trying not to notice. He's trying not to wonder where.

He's been keeping an eye on her. It's been getting on her nerves. This makes the third time she's ducked him.

It's fine. He tells himself that and mostly believes it. She's not gone. She hasn't left, so there's that. But she's ducking him.

She was in line just a little while ago. At the tail end, nodding at someone's story and sipping steadily at her wine. It's the last he saw of her. She's out of sight now. Just out of sight, not gone.

He should let it go. Give her the space she obviously wants.

He just wants her to be ok, that's all, and he's pretty sure she's not. She was. She has been, most of the evening. Happy and a little drunk. Smiling hard and throwing herself into the party. For Kevin and Jenny. For him. Because she _wants_ to be ok, and for her it's not flashbacks or last year's Christmas-themed baby-making den that are the problem. It's not about ferrets and flinching at the tinkle of every tiny bell.

She's been winding down, little by little. It's Christmas in general, not just last Christmas, and he worries even though he shouldn't. Even though it gets on her nerves.

It's just that she's a happy drunk right up to the point that she's not. And the last time he saw her—the last time _before_ she started ducking him—he thinks she was at the tipping point.

It happens fast, and he doesn't have a lot of experience with it. She's pretty careful.

She's a cop. Drinking's practically in the job description to begin with, and for a woman crashing the old boys club . . . well. She drinks. She's just careful.

It's understandable. It's interesting. Or it used to be. When there wasn't a _them_ yet, it was interesting. A character point to build from.

He thought for a long time it was her dad. She'd told him the story early on. Before he probably deserved to know.

He'd watched her so carefully then. Noticed everything in his will to know her. But this was different. Poignant and mixed up with the first thing she'd really shared with him. The first willing story and all the details rising up from it.

How careful she was. Always. The way she'd knock back her first with gusto. Beer or some kind of shot. Nothing mixed unless the evening dragged on. Never wine unless it was just Ryan.

And the second round was always on her. He'd noticed that, too, and the way she'd always skip that one. The way she'd hit the bar with her almost-empty glass and head back with the same one. The same almost-empty close to her body and her hands clutched loosely around fresh ones for everybody else.

For a long time, he figured that was the whole of it. Her dad. Bad memories of the worst time in her life. Of the life she saved and shouldn't have had to. Bad memories that made her careful.

He knows now it's only part of it. That's part of it. Genes and destiny maybe, but he's been on the wrong side of the door once or twice. He knows it's more than that. He's watched the moment happen knows some of it's her, too. Some of it's the fact that she's happy drunk right up until she isn't.

And he can't pretend he's not worried about that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kevin and Jenny's place is wall-to-wall cheer and slightly tipsy people. Castle tries to see it for what it is: A neat, welcoming space all dressed up for the holidays. Their last hurrah with friends before the baby arrives. He tries to see that, but he's having flashbacks."

He's not looking for her when he finds her. Really. He's letting it go. Giving her space, telling himself she's a big girl and all that. That she'll ask if she's not ok and there's anything he can do. Anything she wants him to do.

He's on his way to the bathroom. Working up to being on his way to the bathroom. Because he's not really over the whole bathroom thing from last year. Babies and saddles and rubber duckies and _whatever_ was in the tub. He still doesn't know. He still hasn't decided whether knowing or not knowing is worse.

Lanie and Esposito never saw it. They'd never had their hopes pinned on a really quick quickie only to flip on the bathroom light to find . . . whatever it was. There's been no group therapy vis-à-vis the bathroom and he just needs a minute.

He thinks he's hearing things at first. A phantom bell and he picks up his feet quickly. He claps his hand over his mouth and muffles a yelp. There's nothing, though. No furry body snaking along the baseboards or eyeing up his pant legs. There's nothing and he thinks it's just bathroom flashbacks.

But there it is again. Hardly a second later. A definite jingle and a low voice coming through the cracked-open bedroom door. It's Kate. He knows it's Kate and he's not imagining it.

His feet carry him down the hall. He's not spying. He's not looking for her. He just wonders who she's talking to. He wonders if she's ok and tells himself he'll just peek. He'll just check and then he'll give her space.

That's his plan, but it's weird. Her voice keeps coming. Low and conversational, but no one's answering. It's a monologue with occasional bell. It's weird, and he ventures too far. His body blocks the light from the hall. He realizes too late. His shadow falls over her, and she looks up.

He can't really see her face. Just the glimmer of her eyes and deep shadows. There's a tiny lamp burning on the dresser and she's sitting on the floor, her back to the bed piled high with coats and scarves and warm winter things.

He should say something. He should apologize or ask if she's ok. If she wants to go or she wants _him_ to go or why she's sitting in the dark. But he's tongue tied by the sight of her, curled up and little in the shadows.

"Caught me," she says and her face tips into the light a little.

She looks . . . sheepish? Not too annoyed, he thinks, and it pulls him closer. Another step and he cracks the door a little wider.

"Being naughty, Detective?" He cringes the minute it slips out of his mouth. It's leering and forced and he just meant to check on her. And if she wasn't annoyed before . . .

But she laughs. Smiles at least. She shakes her head and curls her shoulders in. "Just hiding."

"Oh," he says and cringes again. Because he sounds like he just got shot down by the girl of his dreams at the seventh grade dance. "I'll . . . . "

"Castle," she says sharply. His head snaps up. She's annoyed now. But she's holding out one hand, too. She's reaching toward him. "Not hiding from you."

"Oh." He snags her beckoning fingers and lets her reel him in. Tries hard not to beam like a _complete_ goober, but she's rolling her eyes and shaking her head again. Indifferent success at best, but he doesn't care. She's not hiding from _him._ "Ok."

He folds himself down beside her. Pulls his knees up and knots his fingers on top. He holds on to keep from wrapping himself around her.

She's huddled over her own knees. Cross-legged and bent forward. She's staring down at nothing. She might not be hiding from him, but she's prickly. Sad and ill at ease with it. She's hard on herself. Always, and it's worse lately. She won't take coddling from him, so he holds on.

They sit quietly. Laughter and Christmas music filter in. Through the vents and the cracked-open door, but the bedroom is a haven. Just a few things in red and green. Pillow shams and a green garland on the mirror over the dresser. Less, in-your-face Christmas and he thinks that's why she's here. Why she's hiding. He sees her empty wine glass tipped on its side and bites his tongue. He doesn't ask any of the things he wants to ask.

She breaks the silence. Sooner than he'd have thought. Nowhere near as soon as he'd like.

"She's depressed. Lila's depressed."

She says it suddenly. A flick of her finger and the sound of a bell. She draws her hands back and rests them on her thighs and _Jesus._

He says it out loud. He jerks back and stares, because there's a _ferret_ in her lap. _The_ ferret. Complete with jaunty, evil Santa hat and that's what the bell is about. _That's_ who she was talking to. She's been hiding out, talking to a depressed ferret and this is the _biggest_ Christmas fail ever.

He thinks so. She doesn't seem to agree.

She gives a sarcastic snort. Kate does. The ferret is silent and staring. Just as sarcastic, though. The ferret is always sarcastic.

"Don't be a baby, Castle. I've got her."

"I didn't . . ." He stammers. Forces himself to breathe deep and settle. "I didn't know it . . ." Kate glares and he backpedals. Corrects himself, because apparently she's bonded with the face of evil. ". . . _she_ . . . Lila . . . I didn't know she was here."

"No one's supposed to, I think." She nudges the twitchy little nose up and scratches under its chin. _Her_ chin. "Esposito," she says and the whole snaky body twitches like she remembers.

He hopes she doesn't. He _really_ hopes she doesn't. He's got to be her least favorite person ever. She blames him for everything. He's sure of it, even though it was a team effort. The wastebasket and the bag and the other bag. And the whole putting her young in the oven . . . her _young_.

"Are they . . ." He turns to her, aghast. His voice drops to a whisper. "They're not _all_ here?"

Kate drops her eyes and shakes her head. She's sad. _Sadder_. It's a sudden, further descent he doesn't really understand. "No. They're gone. All the little ones are gone."

"Ah," he says, because he has no idea what else to say. He presses his fingers harder into his knees and buries the urge to run. To grab the thing. To grab Kate and save them both.

"They get depressed." Kate cups her palm over the ferret's back. A comforting press of warmth and damned if the evil little beast doesn't look unhappy. The ferret. Damned if she doesn't _look_ depressed. "I read it."

A chuckle escapes. He tries too late to choke it back and makes it worse. Louder and uglier.

"What?" She jerks her shoulder away. Shields the ferret and turns her own face away too late. Her cheeks are burning and he feels like the worst kind of ass. "I did."

"I know," he says quickly. He runs a hand down her back and leans in to risk a kiss behind her ear. "It's just . . . are you being me? Are we doing a thing where you're me and I'm you?"

She swivels her head toward him, eyes narrow, but there's a smile playing at her lower lip.

"Come on, Kate. " He's bolder now. He brushes his fingers along her cheek and smiles wider. Forces himself not to recoil when the ferret sits up and takes notice. When she gives him a hard stare with her beady little eyes and jingles her bell in threat. "That's totally something I would say."

"Shut up," she says. It's grumpy enough, but she ducks her head and shoves closer to his palm.

"I can do that." He slides an arm around her shoulders. Leans his head against hers and crowds her with his knees. "I can be you for tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kevin and Jenny's place is wall-to-wall cheer and slightly tipsy people. Castle tries to see it for what it is: A neat, welcoming space all dressed up for the holidays. Their last hurrah with friends before the baby arrives. He tries to see that, but he's having flashbacks."

  


The party rises and falls outside the door. Beyond the warm comfort of four walls, low light, and the two of them. _Three of them,_ he corrects himself.

They sit together, mostly quiet. She plays with the ferret. He does. Kind of. He still can't help but jerk upright when the long body coils and she makes a dash from one of Kate's knees to the other. But it makes her laugh a little—Kate laughs—so he plays it up.

When they do talk it's her. Kate. She talks about the ferret. About Lila and the neurobiology of ferret depression, all of it interspersed with half a dozen _shut up_ elbows to his ribs when he smiles into her hair and swears he's not laughing. He's not.

He's not laughing. It's interesting. _She's_ interesting like this. She talks and he listens. He notices things, and it's like the beginning all over again. A new side of her he gets to know and he's in love with that. With knowing there will always be more of her to discover. It fills him up. Contentment and light and he loves this time of year. He loves it more with her in his life and feels guilty for it.

She doesn't love it. She's trying, but she doesn't. She's on the wrong side of happy drunk and it's more than Christmas. It's more than another January looming, although that's all enough. There's a new sadness in her. Something more raw. He thinks so, but he's trying not to push.

She's going easy on him, and that feels backward. She's trying. Letting him ask dumb questions and smiling when he does. Letting him lead her on and coax the words out of her. Pressing her fingers to his thigh or her shoulders back against his chest so he won't worry when she doesn't answer. So the mute shake of her head doesn't leave him on the outside looking in.

And he doesn't worry. Not really. He wonders. He wishes—he wishes so much for her. But she's not hiding from him and he can make that be enough.

* * *

"I miss my mom."

It's sudden when she says it. Out of nowhere and summing everything up all at once. The last few weeks. Last year and this. More that just her on the wrong side of happy drunk. But partly that. Just partly.

"It's worse," she says. She rushes into the silence and he's grateful. _So_ grateful to her for being the one to save them both. From whatever inane thing he was likely to say because he wants to make it better. "It shouldn't be, but it's worse. I'm remembering all these things . . . . all the Christmases when I still had her. It should be a happy thing, and it is. But it _feels_ worse."

The words die away—a long, long string of them for her—and laughter rushes in from the party. Out-of-joint cheer that makes them both ache.

"It's new. You never let yourself." He sets his teeth together hard to keep quiet, but it slips out anyway. Something logical slips out, and he can't stop. "You kept watch. Every year. You never let yourself miss her."

It falls quiet. The room and the whole place. More coincidence than omen, he knows—he tells himself—but still. _Still._ He curses silently. Opens his mouth to apologize and has nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. He's bad at being her. So bad at this.

"Do I have to?" It's petulant. It's a lip-pushed-out whine, so much more him than her, and he laughs. She laughs, too, and lets him turn his face to her shoulder. She lets him whisper her name and touch irregular kisses to the underside of her jaw. She lets him, but she asks again. Sad this time. The cracked open heart of it. Why she's hiding in the dark, talking to a depressed ferret. "Do I have to?"

"I think so?" It's hesitant. The ferret looks up at him. Narrows her eyes, though how that's possible he's not really sure. He rushes on. Thinks he'd better make this good. "I think things like that . . . they keep. Until we go through them."

She sighs. Shaky and drawn out. He feels the knots of her shoulders. Kisses her dry cheek and tastes the tears for this—for brand new grief, fifteen years in the making—that she won't allow herself. Even with him. Even if she's not hiding from him, she won't allow herself.

Even alone, probably. _Probably_ , though he wonders if he should offer. If he should gather her up and take her home. Wherever that is tonight, if he should tuck her in and stand watch at the door. If she'd let herself then and maybe it wouldn't be worse for long.

He thinks about offering. He thinks about how to even go about it. He's wondering when she goes on. No sign of tears at all now.

"She'd be happy. She'd like all this." She gestures at the door. At Burl Ives and the ebb and flow of laughter. She peers down into her own lap. "Maybe not this."

The ferret chatters. A short, indignant staccato. Other than the bell, it's the first sound she's made all night, he realizes. She's a better Kate than he is.

"Not easy." Castle reaches out and taps the bell. "You don't make it easy, you."

"I know," she says. He stiffens. His mouth falls open and words rush up. Panicked denial that she stops with her lips. With a rough, aching kiss and fingers tangled tight in his hair. "I know. I know you didn't mean me, Castle. But I don't make it easy. I know that."

"Kate."

He struggles up taller. Closer to her and tries to get both arms around her. It rocks them both back hard against the bed. There's an avalanche. The precarious piles of coats shudders and slides. It belches mittens and berets. Heavy coats and long scarves 'till they're both buried.

She loses Lila in the thick of it. The evil little thing sniffs chaos on the wind and she's in her element. She coils and vaults Kate's thigh. She dives into the tunnel of a sleeve and comes out somewhere else entirely.

They're a flurry of knocking heads and clumsy knees. They chase and sprawl after her, always landing a second too late. They curse and laugh go red with exertion. He hears the bell. Sees the lightning flash of red velvet and pushes off with his feet. He belly surfs to the door. It just misses his face as it flies open. He twists at the last second comes to rest on his back at Jenny's feet.

She looks down at them. Surveys the room with astonished, wide-open eyes and hands on hips. "Guys?"

"Jenny!' he gasps. "Ferret. The door."

Lila materializes then. At that exact moment she appears at Jenny's feet, looking up. Placid, expectant, and innocent as can be.

"Lila!" She bends at the waist. Tries to anyway, then remembers the bump. She straightens awkwardly. "What are you doing out?"

Castle rolls to his side and pushes himself to his feet. He scoops up the ferret without thinking. He juggles her into Jenny's waiting palms and steps back, surreptitiously wiping his hands on his pants.

Kate's on her knees. Still on her knees with her forehead to the floor. She's shaking and there's a terrible moment. She's _shaking_ and he's horrified until the laughter bubbles up. Until she drags in a breath and wipes her eyes and it starts all over again. Laughter from down deep.

Jenny looks from her to him, bewildered. He shrugs. Opens his mouth and closes it again.

Kate struggles up behind him. She's clumsy, grabbing at his jacket tails, his hips and his belt loops, apologizing. Laughing. "I'm sorry. Jenny, I'm so sorry. I took her out. She seemed . . . depressed."

"Oh, Kate!" Jenny gushes.

The two of them are off and running. Jenny read the same article. The two of them bend their heads over Lila and nod seriously. Jenny thanks her. Tells her about finding homes for all the kits and how Lila seemed fine at first.

Castle hangs back. He's not laughing. It's weird enough to border on bizarre, but he leaves them to it and starts picking up coats. Starts trying to match glove to scarf to jacket and gives up. He makes a pile. Sorts by color and lets the low hum of conversation wash over him.

"Yeah?"

He hears it. Not his name, but the way she's turning to him. The smile over her shoulder, shy and a little anxious.

"Yeah," he says. "Of course."

He doesn't know what he's agreeing to but it doesn't matter. Anything. Anything for her.

"You're sure you have to go?" Jenny looks set on wheedling.

He steps up. Picks up the cue smoothly and sees Kate's shoulders slip down a notch or two. "We do. I . . . kind of put everything off to the last minute. I had to beg, but Beckett said she'd help with the wrapping."

"You can owe me." Her smile turns a little evil. He feels the scales tip back for her—for them both and for this time of year. He feels her tip back to the right side of happy and breathes easier.

"Well . . . if you have to," Jenny says with mock stern-ness. "But don't think you're off the hook."

"The hook?" he asks nervously as Jenny juggles Lila up to her shoulder and moves toward him, determination in her eye.

"Yeah, Castle." Kate holds out a hand and upgrades her smile to flat out wicked. Some part of him goes _uh oh_ at that, but grabs her fingers. She tugs him hard to her side and shoves him at Jenny. "You've gotta rub the belly for luck."

* * *


	4. Material Witness—A Case of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's another gift. Stories she's letting herself tell for the first time, and he's grateful she wants to tell him. He's grateful that after too much time and all their wrong turns, she gives her words willingly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a bit confusing, and I apologize. It's both the second part of a story called [Material Witness—A Taste of Honey,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1817662) and the epilogue to this story, "Ferret Calm, Ferret Bright." Material Witness is a series that was prompted by the epilogue of last year's Ferret Christmas story, "Silent Night, Ferret Night." Just to keep things absolutely incomprehensible.

  
  


* * *

You're in my blood like holy wine

You taste so bitter and so sweet

Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling

Still I'd be on my feet.

\- Joni Mitchell, "A Case of You"

* * *

He drives. He's been keeping watch tonight, and there's none of the usual wrangling. She's relieved enough to slide in and rest her head a moment before she has the energy to fasten her belt.

"Home, Jeeves," she says with a tired, imperious smile as he pulls away from the curb. She tips the seat back and turns her face away to stare out the window as the city goes by.

It's busy. It's not quite Christmas, and the streets are more frantic than usual. They move forward in fits and starts. Angry car horns here and strings of happy, bright people dashing into the street there. All of it slows them down. They should be home by now. He wishes for her sake they were.

She doesn't mind. Or maybe she minds less than usual. Less than he does tonight. She smiles and doesn't smile. Doesn't boss him on what route to take and tells him stories now and again to pass the time when everything comes to a full and complete stop. She talks about lumpy ceramic ornaments her mom hung proudly every year.

"Colored lights," she says after a longer silence than usual. "She insisted. But Dad likes white lights. No discussion. _They're classic, Johanna._ " She deepens her voice in a terrible imitation. She doesn't seem to notice the present tense. Her head lolls his way and he sees a real smile gathering at the corners of her eyes. Good memories, and he's glad it's not all worse. Not all of it. "Every year, mom would insist on something brighter. More obnoxious. Chaser lights. God, Dad _hated_ those."

"She was stirring him up," he says with his own quiet smile.

"He needs it." She looks out the window again. Turns back to him right away. "Your mom gets that."

It surprises him. It's true, he realizes, but it surprises him that she thinks about it. All the good things that come from the two of them together.

"Stirring up is Mother's default mode."

"You be nice to her," she scolds. He ducks his head in answer.

He likes this, he realizes. Knowing her by knowing her mother. Finding threads in her that didn't come by way of her father. Not at all. A certain kind of stubbornness. One face of it, anyway, though he knows well enough that Jim Beckett is not a man inclined to be moved once he makes up his mind. Wickedness and fun, too, though. Black humor where Jim's is wry.

It's another gift. Stories she's letting herself tell for the first time, and he's grateful she wants to tell him. He's grateful that after too much time and all their wrong turns, she gives her words willingly.

Silence creeps in a while. He glances over and her eyes are closed. He wishes traffic would move faster. That he could have her home. She's content enough. Probably as content as she can be right now, but he wants to tuck her in.

He's thinking about it. Settling her and smoothing sheets. Sliding in next to her and whispering a story into her shoulder the way she sometimes lets him. The year he solved Santa, maybe. Gathered his clues and confronted his mother with a mountain of evidence. The way she improvised a noir villainess confession worthy of Barbara Stanwyck.

He's thinking about it when her eyes flick open. When she catches him. His tongue stumbles against his teeth. An apology for fussing, even in his imagination, but he stops short of it.

Her eyes are bright and her mouth is a painful twist. She speaks. She tries and doesn't quite make it the first time. She looks out the window and back. Her voice is stronger the second time.

"She would have liked it," she says. "The way your mom makes my dad blush and that ridiculous, outsized tree. Your silly train."

He smiles. Eyes front against the warm happy knot and the ache high in his chest.

She leans her head away from him. She stares out the window and watches the city go by.

"She'd have liked this."

* * *

She pours herself on to the bed, clothes and all. It's alcohol and effort catching up with her. Letting herself miss her mom and how the brand new toll it takes. It's everything.

He moves around the room quietly. Sheds his jacket and untucks his shirt. He tries to let her be, but only makes it so long.

He sits by her feet. Slides a heavy hand down her calf and slips a finger under the top of her boot.

"Take these off?" he asks gently.

She nods. Eyes closed and fingers resting carelessly across her forehead.

Her knee bends willingly under his hands. One, then the other, unresisting. He gathers up the boots and pushes himself from the bed. It's enough for now, and he's too prone to too much. He makes an errand out of it. Tidying. Taking the boots the closet and settling them in place. A separate trip to hang his jacket.

He wonders if he should try to work a while. If he should volunteer to be elsewhere and not make her ask for space. If she needs time to be alone with the tears she won't allow herself.

He's working on it. Trying to hear in his head how a casual offer of it would sound when he just wants to hold her. He just wants to fix things so it's not worse for her.

She calls out, then. She saves him. Saves them both, probably. Again. Her voice is small and quiet as it rises up from the bed and travels to him.

"Can I have a present?"

He sticks his head out of the closet, blank with surprise. It's the last thing he would have expected.

She's curled on her side now. Her hair is wild on the pillow and her make up is smudged like she's been restless. Ill at ease on the bed, as if she can't get comfortable in her skin. There's a hole in the toe of her striped green socks. Her chin is high and her jaw is set, but there's a wobble to it all. There's need she hates in herself. Uncertainty.

"Not Christmas," she says, though. "One of mine."

He nods. He turns back to the closet and tells himself he's drawing a blank. That he can't think of the right thing. Something silly to lighten the mood. That's what he _should_ get, and there are plenty. Christmas things, and lots of them. He's always wanted this. He's always wanted this time of year with her and he has a dozen things he's held back.

But he's reaching already and not for any one of them. Not for something silly or seasonal. He's moving to the back of the closet, and it's a lot of work. It's buried deep, and he's not sure he ever thought he'd give this to her. However he believed back before there was a _them,_ this one . . . this one.

It hurts in a way the others don't. Everything he's never given her has a story. Why the thing moved him in the first place. Why it put him in mind of her and he had to have it for her. But the story of some wrong turn they took, too. Some fear or failing. His or hers or theirs together, piling up over too many years.

But she's his now. He's hers. That and time heal the wounds. They're funny stories even when they're sad ones. Giving her these things is always bittersweet. But none of them so far has hurt like this one.

He stands a while with it in his hands. It's a mistake, he thinks. It's wrong for too many reasons. Pushing when she's already raw. When she already misses her mom. But the bag won't leave his hands. His fingers won't stop smoothing the spray of silver paper or curling through the ribbon. He stares up at the gap on the closet shelf and he can't make himself go back.

He turns to the bedroom. He lets resolution carry him to her, even though part of him is screaming this is a bad idea. He clambers right on to the bed. No preamble, just a heavy, clumsy body that wants to be near her. He stretches out face to face with her and sets the bag upright between them.

She doesn't reach for it. Not right away.

She studies it. The name and address of the shop stamped on brown paper. She frowns. Looks up at him with a question.

"Long gone," he says. It is. The shop didn't make it. Overpriced and too cute by half for Soho. It's been a few things since then, but the space is shuttered now. Not far from the loft, and he knows she knows the spot. "It's an old one."

She nods. Tips the bag on its side with one cautious hand and pulls the bottle free. The wedding-bell paper gets him a sharp look. Another question he's on the hook for, but not now. She's gathering evidence. Building a case, so not right now.

It makes him grin. Weak and watery, but the terror bleeds back a little. The conviction that it's a mistake recedes. He can practically hear the wheels turning as she runs her hands over the bottle. As she turns it and turns it and tries to fix it in time.

She tugs at the ribbon and the words float out of him, unfurling with it and tangling in her fingers. Short, inelegant phrases as it all wells up in him. How badly he wanted her then and the moment the world turned. That moment, so early on, when he wanted all of her. When he knew that it wasn't about conquest or the story or anything but wanting all of her.

She peels back the paper. A strip torn down the center and the pale moon appears. She nudges the gap wider and the low bedroom light falls on the word. _Desire_.

She smiles at that. Unwilling and sharp. He's on the hook again, but she smiles. She doesn't say anything. She sweeps the paper away. Twirls the bottle between her palms and looks up at him. Waits.

"A wedding present," he says. A spark of who he was then drawn from edge of who she is now. Right now. She's more like herself. She's lying on her side with a straighter spine and the sadness at bay, just for a second. "It was a wedding present."

She still doesn't say anything. She waits.

"You told me about your mom." He covers the label with his palm as the next words make their way up. "Your dad."

He burns. Flares hot with the memory of the fool he'd felt then. Cold with what comes next. The first fall. The first time he lost her. "I knew . . ."

He breaks off. Looks at her, but she's wordless. Patient and sad, but listening.

"I knew I could never fix it. But I wanted to try." He takes her hand. Presses it to the word— _Desire_ —and lays his own on top. "I wanted to spend my life trying."

He's finished. Tired, suddenly and he doesn't really know where they go from here. His eyes fall closed and he can't even see the next step. If he'll leave her with this. A gift that's too much and this new grief of hers.

She pulls her hand from his and he thinks he will. He thinks he'll go for now. He lingers in dark space for a breath before her palm comes to rest on his cheek. Before cool fingers trace his the lines around his eyes.

"A wedding present," she says. There's not exactly a smile there, but the words are soft and full. She remembers, and maybe some day she'll tell him. Why that moment. Why she told him then. Why she trusted him when he didn't deserve it.

Maybe some day she'll tell him, but for now she's reaching across the years. That moment to this. "She would have loved you, Castle."

His eyes flick open. She's watching him. Waiting for him to listen. She nods a second later. Sharp, like she's satisfied and then she's rushing toward him. She's tossing silver paper and ribbon over her shoulder and setting the bottle aside for tomorrow or the next day or the next. For any given moment, because it's hers now and the gift will keep. She's burrowing into him. Pressing her hands and lips and cheeks against whatever's near. Murmuring to him, again and again.

"She would have loved Christmas with you."


End file.
